Love Runs Deeper
by BlissfullySortOfAnonymous
Summary: I was twelve years old when it happened. That was the first time I feared for my life--the first of many. Fiyeraba
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.**

**This idea just popped into my head today, and since I've been wanting to attempt first person for a while now, I thought I'd give it a go. The bulk of the story will take place at Shiz, so this chapter is just an introduction. Let me know what you guys think!**

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I was twelve years old when it happened. A girl. A child. But the scars from that night lasted into adulthood, fresh and vivid as though they'd never been given a chance to heal—which, I suppose, they had not. For eight long years I lived in fear, isolation, plagued by memories too terrible to speak of. But I _will_ speak of them, once, before I bury them forever. For those who care to listen, I will tell the story of my life, starting with the very first day of it. That was when my problems began.

Birth. It's a funny thing, if you think about it—so painful and yet, for most, brings such joy. That's the normal way of things. Or so I'm told.

I know little of normal. You see, some babies, like my sister, are born with milky, peaches-and-cream complexions. A few are olive-toned, some a rich brown or even black. Most are born mottled red.

I was born green. I don't mean sallow, sea-sick green—skin green. I mean _green, _green as grass, green as moss, green as an apple…..green as sin. And my father….well, he could never let that go.

My mother loved me; that much I know. She loved my father also, and that is why, when he demanded that she chew milkflowers throughout her second pregnancy to avoid another child like me, she complied without protest.

Those milkflowers killed my mother. And they made my life a living hell.

From that day forward, I was no longer simply the embarrassing mistake of a daughter who could never be taken in public, never be seen by anyone important. I was a demon, a demon who, in Father's eyes, had murdered his beloved wife, murdered her simply by _existing_.

Young as I was, I knew this. I knew it, and yet….and yet I didn't. I didn't know the strength of it, didn't know the full force of my father's hatred.

Not until that night.

I was reading in my small attic bedroom, by the light of a candle stub I had managed to steal from the pantry. My door was locked, as it always was. Not that I expected unwanted visitors; no one cared to join me in my prison. But I imagined that the hatred, the indifference, the neglect could be kept out to some degree. When I locked that door, I left it all behind me.

So I was shocked to hear footsteps—heavy, thundering footsteps—on the stairs that led to my little haven. My first instinct was fear, and I huddled on my raggedy mattress, wishing with all of my might to disappear inside it.

And then something strange happened. I felt myself sinking, becoming one with the frayed, moldy fabric. I didn't understand it at the time, but this was my first use of magic. It was thrilling, confusing, wonderful, and for a moment I forgot the footsteps that were quickly approaching my door.

But, invisible as I was, I could still hear. I could still see the door tremble on its hinges as someone pounded and roared to be let in. In my terror, my spell was broken.

And at that horrible, terrifying moment, so was the lock on my door. Wood splintered and flew, and in stormed my father. In my panic, I grasped deep in my consciousness for whatever had happened before, willing it to save me now. But though the magic was still there, I couldn't reach it.

My body and mind felt separated, distant from one another, and I watched as if from the sidelines as my father beat me, as my small body twisted and crumpled like a rag doll.

That was the first time I feared for my life.

The first of many.

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**I know I've been gone for a while, but if you guys can forgive me….please review?**


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

**Wow! So many reviews! Thanks everyone!**

**I'm not really satisfied with this chapter; I may revise it later. But it gets us almost to Shiz, at least. That's where the fun always starts. :D **

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I spent the next few years dreaming of escape. In my spare time I studied—books, magazines, anything I could get my hands on. I must have read a thousand dusty tomes from my father's library, and enjoyed nearly as many.

It was in these books that I discovered with awe the name for what I had done that night with my mattress—magic. I didn't believe it at first. But the stories and descriptions were so similar to my own experience that I finally had to accept it. And then I began to learn.

According to my reading, there were two types of magic: magic that could be strictly controlled and made to do anything at any time, and a wilder, more mysterious kind of magic that was fueled by strong emotion. I possessed the second.

My kind of magic….well, it had limits. What I read and believed was that it could affect only the user and her surroundings—not other people. At least, not directly.

I found ways around that. When, on a dark night, I heard footsteps on my stairs, I could not wish for the person to change their course or fall….but I_ could_ wish for the stairs to become covered in slippery grease and slime.

Clever, I suppose. But that's not to say I was always successful. For the magic to come, there had to be driving emotion (in my case, usually fear), and yet enough presence of mind to direct it when it came, to fuse power with intention. The balance was difficult to achieve at first, and I endured many a blow as a result of my frequent failures.

But something was different about my magic; something didn't quite fit what I'd read. The more I used my power, the more readily it came to me. There were times when I could feel it tingling in my fingertips, waiting to be called. As I improved, it became….almost too easy, easier than it should have been. Dangerously easy. On nothing more than a powerful whim, my subconscious could order a chair to fly, a flame to spread, a chandelier to fall….often without the consent or approval of my conscience. Accidents happened; nothing serious—yet—but the potential was there. It was a frightening sort of freedom, one that I wasn't quite sure what to do with.

But I digress.

Years passed, slowly. When I was nineteen, I read in a scavenged newspaper about a prince who'd just been accepted to a place called Shiz—Shiz University. The prince I dismissed as inconsequential, but the university peaked my interest. For the next few weeks, I kept my eyes peeled.

As one of my many chores, I collected the mail each morning. When I thought I could get away with it, I dawdled for just long enough to sort through the stack of envelopes before surrendering them to Father. This was routine and nothing came of it most days….but one such morning made me glad, for the first time in my life, that I had a sister.

Three years my junior, Nessarose was spoiled and cruel. But she was also smart, and the heir to my father's position as governor of Munchkinland—an asset to any university. Colleges had been trying to recruit her for years.

And there in my hand was an invitation from none other than Shiz University.

I don't know how long I stared. Footsteps brought me back to myself, and I stuffed the pamphlet down my dress, deposited the rest of the mail into my father's waiting hand, and fled to my attic to hide my treasure until it was safe to enjoy it.

That night I poured over the pages of the brochure, reading what was there and dreaming of what was not. The picture I painted in my mind was the most wonderful place I could imagine—a place where green skin was forgivable, where roofs didn't leak, and where I wouldn't have to scrub floors till my hands bled. A place far away from father and his beatings.

I had exactly two months till term started.

I returned to my escape plans with feverish purpose; I was no longer merely running _from _something, but _to_ something as well. In my frenzy, I was able to summon a map from father's library, and through the maze of spidery red lines I sketched the quickest path to Emira, where I would find work to pay for tuition. Shiz was located on the far edge of the city, close to Oz's capital.

Not five minutes after choosing my route, I had stuffed everything I owned, as well as two of Father's books and the invitation, into a small satchel. Gathering my courage took a little longer.

The next night, I ran. I shouldered my bag, stole a handful of gold from the treasury, and left. I dared not take a horse, for fear my father would notice its absence and send the police after me.

I had never been more than a few yards from our mansion—or rather _Father's _mansion, as all that belonged to me was the attic. I didn't know where to rent a horse or a carriage, and I was too easily recognizable to stop and ask for help; green skin does that to a person.

After a few miles of wandering, I sat down to rest. Even though my feet ached, even though the rain had soaked me through, and even though I saw my father around every turn, I felt lighter than I ever had before. I smiled up at the pitch-black sky.

I was free.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nopeee, don't own it. **

**Thanks again for reviewing! Ummm…I think, for once, that's all I have to say. :D Enjoy!**

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My first carriage ride was awe-inspiring; I had never dreamed there could be so _much_ of the world. It was a humbling thing, to look out my window as the countryside flew by and be reminded again and again of just how small a speck I was in the scope of….everything.

It took several days to reach Emira, and it hardly seemed real when I did. The city was bigger than I had expected—but then, so were most things. It was then that I began to realize, to some small degree, just what I had gotten myself into. Looking around at this huge city teaming with people I did not know and buildings I didn't recognize, it hit me that I had no idea what to do.

I must've looked a regular fool wandering the streets that day, and a green one at that. I still wonder that the worst I received from passers-by was the same look of disgust I had seen on my father's face for nineteen years; not exactly life-threatening, and at least no one threw tomatoes. But it was still enough to make me hang my head in shame, thinking that maybe green skin _wasn't _forgivable after all.

I knocked on the door of every business I passed, and each one was slammed in my face. Even the street vendors wanted nothing to do with me. Afraid and alone as I was, it was difficult to remain optimistic in the face of such hostility. By nightfall, I was tired and discouraged. I decided to make my final inquiry for the day at what looked like a cheap inn, so that even if I faced another rejection, perhaps I would get lucky and be allowed a room for the night.

The door was answered by a buxom, ruddy-faced woman with such a garish confection of hues smeared on her eyelids, lips, and cheeks as to make my green look tame. I guessed that was why the door remained open. Only slightly less noticeable than the paint was the prodigious amount of cleavage that seemed to fill the entire doorway, reminiscent of the giant balloons I had envied Nessa as a child. I wondered if too large a breath would pop them.

All things considered, she was fairly intimidating. I might've backed away if the first words out of her mouth were not, "You 'ere for a room or a job?" After that, I felt rather more inclined to hug her, and take my chances on popping the balloons.

"Both, I suppose."

"Hmm…" She pursed her lips. "Turn around an' let me look at you." I did, though the urge to hug the woman vanished at the indignity of being treated like a piece of meat on display. My irritation grew with her assessment. "Well, the skin won't look so green in the dark, and your figure's nice enough. Alright, I'll take you."

I wanted to ask her what in Oz my looks had to do with my being a competent worker, but thinking that I'd better take what I could get, I bit my tongue.

She pushed off from the door frame and sidled forward, holding out a thick-fingered hand. "That'll be two coppers for your room upstairs." I gave her the money, which she promptly tucked into her cleavage. "It'll be yours for as long as you bring in profits. You'll 'ave your first customer later tonight, an' if you 'ave any questions, the other girls'll teach you what you need to know, though I suspect you know plenty already. Now right this way, an' I'll show you your room."

She motioned for me to follow her, but I hung back in confusion. "Customer?" I said to her retreating back. "What am I selling?"

She found my question amusing, though I didn't know why, and she laughed as she turned to face me. "You're jokin'." I shook my head, cheeks flaming.

"Well, I'll be. D'you 'ear that, Tallin?" she called over her shoulder. "Little chit wants to know what she's selling." Drunken laughter reached my ears. The woman turned back to me, her smile gone. "You're sellin' yourself, sweet'eart, to anyone what'll 'ave you."

I admit I was shocked. I had read of places like this, but it never occurred to me that they actually existed in clear view on street corners. I began to stumble backwards, shaking my head violently. "No. No, I don't want—"

She dug claw-like fingernails into my forearm, stopping my retreat. "You don't _want _it? That's rich. You think any one of my girls _wants_ to be 'ere? They came to me the same way you did—alone an' penniless, an' in need of fattenin' up. But you're too good for the likes of us, is that it?"

"N-no, I just—"

"Well, you asked for the job, an' I need a new girl. I'll take no prudery from you, missy. You ain't above what we do 'ere."

She proceeded to march over the threshold with me in tow; I dug in my heels and fought. I could feel my dismay turning to anger, stirring the magic in my gut, and I worried what I might do if pushed further. "Let me go." My voice shook; the magic was coming fast. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a broomstick on the doorstep twitch. "I'll only warn you once."

She snorted. "You're warning me, are you? I'd like to see—"

That was all she got out before her feet were swept out from under her. I let the broom handle fly a few times on the shrieking woman before regaining control, and then the worst of my anger ebbed. I looked down on her, curled into a ball and cowering, and a wave of panic rushed over me. Was I just like my father—terrorizing people just because I could? I told myself no—that I was defending myself—but the thought gave me little reassurance.

She scrambled away from me on all fours, and then hauled herself to her feet. I'll never forget the picture she made: Enormous bosom heaving enough to explode, face as red as a quadling's, and wisps of hair flying in every direction. She gripped the doorframe behind her and inched away, pointing a shaking finger at me. "I'll call the police, I will." My guilt vanished. "One of…one of _your kind_ was burned at the stake not a month ago. You just see if you get any different."

She slammed the door in my face, and I heard the lock click. Thus ended my search for a job.

I stood in a daze, half expecting her to reemerge and tell me she was joking. What kind of awful place burned people at the stake? Just for having magic? No one _chose_ to have powers; they just had them. I began to panic.

"Breathe, Elphaba, breathe." I tried to calm myself down. "That door stayed open for a full five minutes. That's progress."

A raspy voice close behind me made me whirl. "I saw that, girl."

I was sure I was dead. From what I knew of government, one witness may not have been enough to convict me, but two probably would've done it—even if the witnesses were rather eccentric.

A haggard old woman stood half-hidden in shadow, bent over a twisted cane. She leered up at me, revealing crooked yellow teeth. It struck me as odd that the creepy people in Emira nearly outnumbered the normal ones.

She brandished her cane at me. "Don't think I don't know the Gift when I see it. That's a pretty little trick you just did."

Her words confused me. They didn't sound accusatory; they sounded appreciative. "What do you want?"

She cackled; not laughed—cackled, proving that there was indeed a different between the two. "Oh, come now, dearie. Our kind must stick together. Come." She beckoned impatiently.

I stayed put. "Our kind," she had said. Intrigued, I took a cautious step closer. "Our kind?"

She didn't answer right away, only stared hard at me for moment. "Close your eyes, child."

If there was one thing I had learned from living with Father, it was that the minute I let my guard down, something bad was bound to happen. But something about her eyes made me want to obey.

So I did….and nothing happened. I waited. Something rustled my hair, and my eyelids twitched.

"Not yet, girl. Keep them closed and _feel._ Concentrate."

I had no idea what she wanted me to do, but somehow I did it. After a moment, I began to feel a strange wind. It reached for me with tendril-like fingers, tugging at my hair and my dress. As it built up speed and swirled around me, I realized that it was no wind—it was magic. And not my magic; it was hers.

I saw colors behind my closed eyelids—vibrant ones at first, but almost forcefully so. Like they wanted to be something else. They held for a moment and then shattered, flooding my vision with a turbulent dark mist. Threatening shapes began to emerge, and my insides turned cold; what did it mean?

And then it stopped—instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch and _poof_.

The breath I hadn't realized I was holding whooshed out of me, and the darkness fled my mind and memory as quickly as it had come. In my excitement, I didn't wait for her to explain. "You have it too?" All I could think about was that I'd finally found someone who, in some way, was like me. I didn't see the wicked glint that flashed in her eyes at my eagerness, didn't know that she saw my desperate need for camaraderie and acceptance plain as day. I didn't know that I'd just given her all the information that she needed to gain a powerful hold over me.

But _she_ knew, and reveled in it. "Yes, dear, and I can teach you how to use it, how to control it. How to avoid mishaps like the one you just had."

Enticed by her offer, I didn't stop my feet from carrying me closer—close enough to see her every wrinkle, see the black hairs growing out of a mole on her cheek, and the shocking electric blue of her eyes. Close enough to see that she was far too old to be still living naturally. Had I been in possession of my senses, I would have noticed how unmistakably far from trustworthy she looked. But I hesitated only once more. "What about the police?"

She chuckled quietly. "The police. You come with Yackle, and I'll see that the police haul _that_ one—" she pointed behind me—"off to the loony bin, and have no fear for yourself."

I shudder to recall that I followed her without another word.

I'm wiser now than I was then, thank Oz. Back then I didn't know that not all witches are "good", or even "neutral".

Yackle was neither.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**Finally! I hope it was worth the wait! **

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"This way, dearie." Yackle threw a toothy grin over her shoulder as she led me down yet another dark alley.

"Rat number five hundred and forty-six," I said under my breath as one of the disgusting rodents scurried by my foot, emitting the same shrill squeak as the five hundred and forty-five before him. No matter how many times I heard it, the sound still made me cringe.

But really, I hadn't been counting the rats, or even paid them much notice beyond my initial distaste. I had been observing my progressively shiftier surroundings with growing unease. Yackle led me through street after street of rickety apartments, with more people living in the pockets between buildings than in the apartments themselves.

One of these urchins, a toothless old beggar man, approached me on all fours and latched onto my legs. "A copper, miss. A copper, if you've the heart."

"Y-yes, of course," I stuttered.

Before I could locate my purse, Yackle kicked at the old man with one of her heavy boots. "Go back to the gutter. The girl will give no money to the likes of you."

Stunned by her cruelty, I could only stare. I think she must have realized her mistake, because she put a hand on my shoulder and gave what I guessed was a sympathetic smile. "Pay him no mind, dear. It's lowlifes like him that hang around here at night, pretending to be helpless so as to trick naïve young things like you out of your savings. Trust me, my pretty—you'll learn for yourself soon enough."

I should not have been even mildly appeased by her lie, but some lonely part of was determined to trust her. I nodded along with her explanation and let her gnarled, bony fingers drag me deeper into the heart of the city.

If I thought that the slums of Emira could get no filthier, I was very, very wrong. Yackle's…._lair_, for lack of a better word, was essentially a hole in the wall with a door, a stove, and a cot in one corner. Cobwebs formed a thick canopy over our heads, and the room reeked of mold and decay. My eyes watered at the smell.

Yackle closed the door, and the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle—my first sensible reaction to the woman. She muttered something I couldn't make out, and one hand waved a careless gesture over her head.

Almost instantly, my morbid surroundings were transformed. The cobwebs disappeared, the stench was replaced with the faint aroma of daisies and cinnamon, and a small fire crackled and popped on the far wall. The cot became a quaint little bed, with a small stuffed bear perched on a goose-feather pillow, smiling relentlessly.

A second glance around the room revealed that its size had nearly doubled, and that there were two doors inside that had not been there before. One was open, revealing a shadowed hallway in which I could barely make out two more doorways.

I turned my bulging eyes on Yackle. She was watching me intently, but upon seeing my amazement, she hobbled over to squeeze my hand in both of hers. "This will just be our little secret, hmm? We don't want the neighbors knowing what we are, and after all, I don't think they'd take too kindly to us living in such comfort." She patted my wrist and made her way to the stove. "Tea?"

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I began my apprenticeship the next morning. Yackle's lessons covered everything—from establishing a consistent connection to even the most elusive magic, to potions and roots with magical properties. Some of the things she taught me were…questionable. She often blurred the line between good magic and not-so-good magic, banking on the expectation that as my eyes were opened to my full potential, the desire for power would become too strong to resist. From there she would be able to use me as she pleased.

Time passed in a bit of a blur. Yackle was cunning; she reeled me in slowly, gained my trust, and then began to ever-so-subtly nudge my ideas in the direction she wanted. It was never obvious—just a word here or there, or a casual suggestion of vengeance on those who had done me wrong. She told me gruesome stories, under the excuse that it was necessary to know the bad side of magic as well as the good in order to gain a true understanding of either. Once I knew the full range of my power, she said, I would own it, control it, breathe it like oxygen. She was warm and encouraging, with always a sympathetic ear for stories of my father and former life. She became my confidante, my mentor, a friend, and a mother.

Because of my background, Yackle's kindness and attention to me soon became a dangerous weakness. I guess I hadn't known what to expect when I'd accepted her offer; I certainly hadn't expected to be taken in and provided for. I hadn't expected to feel wanted. But even though I enjoyed her lessons and treatment of me, not to mention the protection she provided from the police, I couldn't, nor did I want to, forget about Shiz. I was determined to attend.

I brought up the subject on the afternoon of my third day there. We were kneading bread and discussing the beauty-enhancing properties of a special herb that she had added.

"Yackle?" I dusted flour from my hands and pushed up the sleeves of the dress she had bought me. It was simple, and black just like my old one, but it was new and clean, and to me that was luxury.

"Yes dear?"

"Can this herb…in a potion, could it make me…not green?"

I waited for her disdain, but Yackle laughed good-naturedly. "This is a beauty _enhancer_, Faba. It could no sooner change your skin than get rid of my moles." (She had many.) "No, it's not nearly so powerful as _that_."

"Oh." I was disappointed, but not surprised.

"But there is...no, I'd best not mention it."

That caught my interest. "Mention what?"

She flicked her wrist dismissively. "Just an old potion, Faba. It's far too gruesome for young ears such as yours."

"Please tell me?" I stopped kneading and held my breath.

Yackled spared me a single glance, and continued to twist and contort her portion of the dough. "Well, I suppose if you want to know..."

"I do!"

"Alright." She was silent for a moment. "It was taught among our ancestors that beauty runs in the blood. According to ancient teachings, it is in one's blood to be beautiful, just as it is in another's blood to be ugly. Legend has it that there was once a hideous witch, named..." She wiped sweat from her brow and thought for a moment, "...named Valyra. Driven by jealousy of her beautiful older sister, she committed the ultimate sin and thereby developed a potion—a potion containing her sister's blood. This potion has been used by the desperate with great success for over a century. Of course, your condition is quite obviously unprecedented, but I imagine that if you were to obtain the blood of a fair-skinned beauty…well, the principle is the same."

I didn't know what to say. Her calm description of such a horrific tradition unnerved me, but I had asked for it, hadn't I?

After a tense silence, she looked at me again and smiled. "But of course, we don't need to worry about that, do we dear? You're lovely just as you are."

Too preoccupied to argue, I asked slowly, "And if I weren't?"

Her smile tightened. "Well. You'd be a very unfortunate girl, wouldn't you?" She finally set her dough aside and cupped my cheek. "Now, enough. Beauty is such a fleeting thing. I used to have it, you know, and now look at me."

Her warm chuckle reassured me and, grinning, I returned to my kneading. "Wouldn't it be wonderful, though?" I daydreamed out loud, squeezing my eyes shut and leaning into the flour-coated counter. "To go to Shiz without being gawked at…"

"Ha! Anyone not worth gawking at is a pitiful waste of space, if you ask me."

I flushed with pleasure. "You think so?"

"Of course, dear."

We worked in silent companionship for a moment, and then I said, "Speaking of Shiz, Yackle, I need to earn some money. Tuition is expensive, and I—"

"Ah, yes, of course. You must attend school. You're asking me for money, yes?"

I shook my head, mortified. "No! No, not for money. I thought you might know somewhere I could work."

She cackled. "No, it's quite alright, dear. I have plenty of gold, and nothing to do with it. I'll tell you what—I'll pay for your schooling if you promise to come and stay with me every weekend. We mustn't let your magic suffer, must we?"

And so it was settled. I would go to school during the week, and train with Yackle over the weekends. I couldn't have been more thrilled. Everything seemed perfect.

If only it were that easy.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Come now, we all know I'm not that brilliant.

Well, guys...I'm back! Again. I know, I know. Buuuut I saw the show again last weekend--with Marcie Dodd, Natalie Daradich, and Chris Peluso (absolutely beautiful as Fiyero:)--and it's got me all fired up. I'll try to stick with it this time, I promise.

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My time with Yackle flew by at a ridiculous pace, and before I knew it, my first day at Shiz had arrived. I went through the motions of dressing and braiding my hair in a dreamlike state that morning, and bumped into more than one person on my way to the school. Once I'd ventured outside of my normal range of travel, where people recognized me and had grown tired of pointing and whispering, the gasps and snickers that greeted my arrival brought me speedily back to reality.

With a scowl, I lifted my chin and shouldered my way through cluster after cluster of families saying their goodbyes. The sentimental sight was, to my eyes, uncomfortable, even disturbing. I tried not to reflect upon why.

My face felt a permanently darker shade of green by the time I reached the registration desk. The woman behind the counter glanced up at me and froze, gaping. If possible, my burning cheeks grew hotter.

"Well. And you are?" I decided then that her thick glasses, wide eyes, and pursed lips made her look like a fish--one of the bug-eyed variety.

"Elphaba Thropp," I replied shortly. No need to be polite—she'd already established her opinion of me, like everyone else, and I was certain that it wasn't a favorable one. Nothing I said could change that.

So I smiled my sweetest smile and informed her that I'd never met a more gifted bug-eyed fish impersonator.

I was given my room assignment—and a murderous glare to go with it—and, having no inclination to ask the woman for directions, I set off to find my dormitory. On my way out of the courtyard, I overheard part of a shrill conversation about the utter indignity of Shiz's refusal to grant private suites, and how in Oz one was to survive in a _shared _bedroom.

"I mean, imagine if you had to share with someone like…" –pile on the disgust here—".._her_. I could just die!" She meant me, obviously. I found myself torn between amazed laughter and fury. Here I was, thinking what a luxury it was not to live in an attic. How incredibly silly of me.

As I approached the main building, I couldn't help but be in awe of the beautiful architecture. The school resembled an ancient castle, with outdoor hallways connected to the grey stone body of the university, lined by many large windows without panes. I entered the one that I thought led to the dorms, staring upwards at the rose vine that wrapped around the marble archway.

"Oh!" Suddenly I found myself flat on my rear. I stared dazedly up into the face of the tall blonde boy I'd run into. His nose crinkled delicately in disdain, and he carefully stepped around me and strode away without a second glance.

"Jerk," I muttered to myself with a glare at his retreating back. Much to my consternation, my eyes began to fill.

"For Oz's sake, Elphaba, what's the matter with you?" I shook myself and stood up. "You're not here to make friends," I insisted aloud. I swiped aggressively at the moisture in my eyes, blinking hard as the stone floor swam and then cleared.

I looked up to find a very small brunette watching me. "_What_?" I exploded. "_Yes_, I am green. _No_, I'm not descended from elves, frogs, or vegetables. Oz, is it really that fascinating?"

She scampered away, head ducked, and shot a frightened glance over her shoulder before she disappeared around the corner. With a sigh, I picked up my suitcase and trudged down the hall, paying careful attention to room numbers and trying to get my bearings. Finally, three sets of stairs and many winding hallways later, I stood before the room I'd be spending the next nine months of my life in. I opened the door unceremoniously and made my noisy way inside, depositing my suitcase on the nearest bed and then flopping down with a sigh of relief.

The narrow mattress was surprisingly soft. I bounced a few times, fighting a strange urge to giggle. I walked to the window and looked out at the grounds, pressing my hands and forehead against the cool, smooth glass. The lawn was a vibrant, welcoming green, and was bordered by a dark wall of pine and maple trees—a perfect place for long walks and study time away from the masses.

"I don't believe it."

A horribly familiar voice from the doorway made me jump. I turned with apprehension to face my new roommate, gripping the windowsill behind me until my knuckles turned as white as this new girl's face.

Her plump pink lips, open in shock, formed a perfect circle to match each of her wide crystal blue eyes. Blonde hair floated in graceful curls just past her shoulders, and almost every inch of her—from her dress to her lips to her toenails—glittered.

I hated her.

Her shock quickly transformed into what would have been a look of righteous indignation, had there been anything righteous about hers. She stamped her foot. "No! No, no, no, no, _no_. Out!"

That's when it hit me where I'd heard her voice before. This was the spoiled princess who'd wanted a private suite! Lucky girl got me instead.

_Oh, the irony_. The corner of my mouth quirked upward, and the blonde's eyes bulged. "You're _laughing_?" she squeaked. "You…you filthy green…thing! Get _out _of my bedroom this instant!"

Filthy. Green. _Thing. _

Oz knew I'd heard worse, but watching her dainty white nose scrunch up as she said it was too much. I snapped.

All in the blink of an eye, the window behind me flew open, something wet and brown sailed through it, and my unfortunate roommate was coated head to toe in mud. She shrieked, and kept shrieking as I went from being stunned to extremely smug.

"Filthy and green beats filthy and brown, I think." I said with a satisfied smirk. "Although, I must say, I like your dress better this way—it's less likely to blind someone." With a pitiful glance at her once-canary-yellow dress, she burst into tears and fled the room. As soon as she was gone, I bent over the windowsill and laughed until I cried.

My happiness at my roommate's expense was short-lived. I sobered as I realized just how easily I could be expelled if I didn't learn to keep my magic in check. Blondie, as I'd christened her, would certainly test my limits, and I wasn't keen on the prospect of a life sentence for murder.

No, Blondie and I would have to learn to get along.

………Riiiight.

* * *

Well...there is chapter five of my current favorite child. This one should be pretty fun from here on out:)


	6. Chapter 5

**Man, guys, I've got to admit—I'm fresh out of ideas. I have no creativity left. Zip. Zilch. Nada. But I'm struggling through it…I guess we'll see what happens. **

**Oh, yeah—thanks very much to Beautifully Tragic Girl, Leia Emberlaze, lizziemagic, littleAVA, Storm Warning, Hedwig466, and musicalgal3 for reviewing! Much appreciated. **

* * *

"_Aghhhhh!" _

I was awoken by a shriek the next morning. Galinda, as I'd learned her name was, was sitting bolt upright in bed, staring at me like I'd grown an extra head.  
"You're still here? This was supposed to be a dream. Wake _up_, Galinda, wake up!" She pinched herself hard, buried her face in her pillow, and then sat up again. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and—

"_Aghhhhh!" _

Galinda sprung from her bed. "I can't bear it. I'm moving in with Pfanee." She grabbed a purse from her nightstand and a bundle of sequined fabric from her closet and fled the room. I rolled over and went back to sleep, and when I woke up an hour or so later, the rest of Galinda's things were gone. _Well…that was easier than expected, _I congratulated myself._ No effort required!_ Perhaps being green had its benefits after all.

* * *

My first class that morning was history, taught by the sole Animal on the faculty—a Goat named Dr. Dillamond. History was my favorite subject, but still I approached it with some apprehension; and rightly so, as it turned out. I walked into the classroom and froze.

"You!"

The man I'd run into the day before turned slowly, and a pair of deep brown eyes stared back at me. "Have we met?"

I knew he recognized me; how could he not? I inclined my head in a mocking show of deference. "Elphaba Thropp, Your Majesty." Straightening, I looked him up and down. "I see my first impression was inaccurate. Forgive me. You're more of an ass than I gave you credit for."

"And you're even greener up close."

I continued loudly, as if I hadn't heard. "But you're proud of that, aren't you?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Excuse me." I stepped around him and saw that the entire class was gaping at me in disbelief. I heard whispers of, "What else could you expect from a green person?" and "Doesn't she know who he _is_?"

I stopped in front of the prissy-looking brunette who'd said the latter and said, in the same sickly sweet tone I'd used on the fish lady, "I don't care who he is, sweetheart. Even arrogant little boys deserve to be told the truth, don't you think?"

Dr. Dillamond intervened then. "Everybody quiet down, please!" He went to the board and wrote out his name in large, spiky letters, as I quickly claimed a seat in the front row. "Now then. My name is Dr. Dillamond, and I hope very much that we shall _all_—" he shot a pointed look at the blonde and then at me "—be the very best of friends."

Dr. Dillamond was very professional, and the subject matter interesting, but I found my attention slipping as I became painfully aware of the many stares I was receiving. A tiny piece of something bounced off the back of my head, and I swung around on reflex, only to be greeted with innocent expressions and a few snickers. I faced forward, and it happened again. This time I saw a soggy paper ball fall to the floor near my foot. The floor around me gradually became littered with tiny wads of saliva-coated paper, and I stared resolutely at the chalkboard for as long as I could contain myself.

Finally, I raised my hand. "Dr. Dillamond, sir, I wonder if I might ask your opinion on something."

He smiled. "Ask away, dear girl. That _is _what I'm here for."

"Thank you, professor. I am concerned because I notice a significant gap between age and maturity levels among college-aged individuals. It seems to me, professor, that there is an inexplicable tendency among students at our very own Shiz to cling to infantile behavior—flinging spit wads, for example. I wonder if perhaps an expert such as yourself could explain this phenomenon."

Dr. Dillamond blinked. "Well, as you know, my profession is history, not science. However, I believe that such unfortunate individuals were, in fact, born with certain developmental handicaps which, if unaddressed, will surely prevent them from ever becoming competent men and women. This…disease, as it were, can affect everything from one's grades to one's ability to attract the opposite sex."

"Oh dear. There's no hope for them at all?" I looked over my shoulder and locked eyes with His Majesty. He stared back in defiance, but I could have sworn his cheeks were tinged pink. I smirked. "How tragic."

* * *

"I flipped my political science book shut with satisfaction. "Done!" There had been an extraordinary amount of homework for the first day of school, but it was done and I was ready for a leisurely trip to the library. The sounds of some sort of commotion in the hallway interrupted my train of thought.

My bedroom door burst open, and in marched the headmistress, Madame Morrible, dragging none other than Galinda Upland by the ear. "Madame, I can't live with her! I can't, I can't, I—"

"You'll stick to your _given_ room assignment, missy, or you won't have one at all. I don't want to hear another word about it." With that, she dusted off her hands and left the room.

"Oh! I'll have you fired, you old crone; just see if I don't," Galinda huffed at the empty doorway. "Oh!" She slammed her suitcase down and whirled to face me. "You think you've won, don't you, _Miss _Elphaba? Taking over _my _room and ruining what was supposed to be a perfect year? Well, you won't get away with it. You just wait and see."

* * *

I came across very few people on my way to the library, and that was fine by me. From a distance I could see laughing crowds of students, and I thought I caught sight of the jerk from history class in the center, along with a girl I instantly recognized as my lovely roommate. How predictable.

I arrived at the double-door entrance to the library nearly bouncing with anticipation, only to find a sign that read: "Closed until the third day of classes." Apparently they didn't expect anyone to start studying—or, Oz forbid, reading for fun—so soon.

Unwilling to return to my dorm on the off chance that Galinda was there, I wandered around campus, taking all of the least busy pathways. After some time I encountered a lovely stone courtyard with a fountain in the middle, and benches lined along the outside of the circle. Ignoring them, I took a seat on the stone wall of the fountain, and trailed a finger in the water.

"You."

I looked up, startled. Approaching me, arms crossed over his chest, was the last person in the world I wanted to see. "I'm sorry," I feigned confusion. "Have we met?"

"Unless there's more than one sharp-tongued green girl at Shiz, I believe we met this morning. How do you do, Miss Thropp?"

"I'd do a heck of a lot better if you happened to trip and crack your head on this fountain."

He frowned. "Why do we keep running into each other? Did my fan club tell you I was here?"

"You've got to be kidding me. It would be a very sad day that _I_ would go looking for _you_."

"Listen, Elphaba." He slapped his hands down on the fountain opposite me. "I do not want to be here. I don't want to be friends with you or anybody else." He paused and murmured, as if to himself, "Oz, I don't know why I do it."

"You don't want to be friends? Really? Here I was expecting you to get down on one knee. How silly of me."

He glared. "Funny."

"Who _are _you?" I demanded rudely.

He gave a sarcastic bow. "Fiyero Tiggular, Prince of the Vinkus, at your service. Feel free to grovel and take back every honest thing you've said to me all day; everyone else does."

I blinked. "Well, if you don't mind, Your _Highness_, I'll leave the groveling to my roommate. Personally, I can think of much better uses of my time—plucking my nose hairs one by one, for instance. That's vastly preferable to being in your presence."

Feeling proud of myself, I stalked from the courtyard with out a backward glance. _Take that, Fiyero Tiggular. _

* * *

**A/N—This is the tweaked version. I think it's much better…I should be able to work everything out from here. Review?**


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: It ain't mine, kids. **

**Holy crap! An update! _I _don't even believe it, and I'm the author! **

* * *

"Yes!" Galinda celebrated aloud as she removed a pink tape measure from around her newly bustier-enhanced chest. "Thirty-six! One more inch than Pfanee."

"Would you look at that?" I drawled from behind my latest reading material. "Your bust measurement matches your IQ."

"At least I _have_ a bust measurement," she shot back. "My nine-year-old brother could fill this bustier better than you could."

I snapped my fingers. "Shoot. I guess I won't be able to join the circus anytime soon." I eyed the pink bow that accentuated her cleavage and wrinkled my nose. "That's the only place I'd be caught dead in one of those."

"Is that so?" She slammed the measuring tape down on the bed. "Well, I don't care where you're caught dead, _roomie_, so long as I don't have to deal with you anymore."

"O-ho! You think _I'm _hard to deal with, do you?" I sat up, book forgotten. "You're up at the crack of dawn every morning, banging around in the bathroom loudly enough to wake my dead grandmother all the way in Munchkinland. Oz, I can count on one hand the number of times in a week you manage to go five minutes without carrying on as if the world was about to end! I, on the other hand, never speak a word to you unless it's to get _you_ to stop disrupting _me! _You're darn lucky, I'd say."

"Well, you're clearly the only one who thinks so. In case you hadn't noticed, I've got the entire student body on my side! Who do you have? No one." She stepped into her dress, jerked up the zipper, and headed for the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have a date with Fiyero—the prince, you know. Have fun studying."

Hold the fort. Fiyero _Tiggular_? What happened to Mr. "I don't want to be friends with you or anyone else"? _Guess His Highness changed his mind…_

_

* * *

_Lunch the next day bordered on vomit-inducing, and it had nothing to do with the food. It had to do with watching Galinda ooze and fawn and giggle over her brand new boyfriend. It was like watching a little girl try to take care of a baby doll: she smothers it and carries it around by its ankles, all the while beaming and thinking she's doing a wonderful job.

"You'd think he had a sign on his chest that said 'Collecting drool of dumb blondes **here**,'" I grumbled to myself. What could have possessed him to tolerate that—and with a _smile _on his face—was beyond me.

Disgusted, I picked up my empty tray and headed for the exit, deliberately altering my course so as to pass Galinda's table. I stopped right in front of her, for once enjoying the silence that accompanied my arrival. I smiled.

"Galinda, dear, if you bat your fake eyelashes any harder, I'm afraid they'll fall right off and land in Fiyero's coffee."

For the first time, I got to see her rosy cheeks turn a blotchy red. Before she could get a word in I had wiggled my fingers cheerily, wished her happy eating, and hightailed it out of the cafeteria, startling more than one student with the sharp peal of laughter that erupted as soon as I got through the door.

* * *

Everywhere I went from then on, I saw Fiyero. He was never alone; wherever he went, Galinda and the masses followed. Needless to say, I was confused—and irritated in the extreme. I have to admit that as much as I disliked him, I felt some strange claim over him, because of his confession to me that day at the fountain. Obviously, he hadn't told any of these other people how he felt. Of all people, **I **knew what was going on.

"Great thing to take pride in, Elphaba," I muttered to myself one afternoon. "He confesses to you that he hates everyone at Shiz, and you decide that makes you special." I guess I really was that desperate.

* * *

"Fiyero, will you please stop whacking those pencils on the table?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Pencils?" He scrunched up his eyebrows. "Pencils….Ohhhh. You mean my drumsticks."

I eyed the ordinary, yellow, number two wooden pencils—complete with rock-hard pink erasers—in his hands. They were heavily dented and chipped, presumably from being beaten against Fiyero's desk. I guessed he must have had them for a while.

…..And they still had not been sharpened.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sucked in a breath. "Fiyero, those are pencils. Pen-cils. You know, the things you use for—oh, I don't know…Writing last week's essay, maybe? By the looks of them, you didn't make it past the first letter."

He slapped his "drumsticks" down on his desk and turned toward me. "You know what, Elphaba? I think I've had enough insults from you."

"Insults? I thought you'd be flattered! I know how much you enjoy your carefree, brainless little prince charade."

The pencil in his right hand snapped. "Somehow, Thropp, coming from you, that doesn't carry much weight."

_Excuse me?_ "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm not the only one putting on an act around here."

I opened my mouth to protest, but at that moment, the bell rang and Fiyero jolted out of his seat and made a beeline for the door. It was just as well—my tongue may as well have fallen off, for all the good it would have done me. For once in my life, I had no idea what to say.


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

**Another chapter! Hard to believe, isn't it?**

**Thanks to the four of you who reviewed! That was really, really awesome of you, seeing as I've been so lazy lately. **

**This is kinda one of those there-out-of-necessity chapters. **

* * *

"Concentrate, Faba."

"I'm…trying…" _Crash_. The large porcelain pot I'd been attempting to levitate from one side of the room to the other came to a halt-a few unfortunate inches away from its shelf-and then plummeted to the ground, splitting neatly in half. The floor around it was riddled with similar casualties. I flopped onto the nearby bed in frustration, dashing the back of my hand across the sweaty mass of hair on my forehead. "Yackle, why can't I do this? What am I doing wrong? At this rate, there'll be nothing left in this house for me to break by nightfall."

She waved a hand in dismissal. "Oh, a bunch of old pottery. It's easily fixed." With another careless flick of her wrist, the numerous cracked pots and pans put themselves back together and zoomed across the kitchen in all different directions to return to their proper places. It was as if the objects followed a perfectly coordinated traffic system—nothing collided, nothing faltered…it was effortless perfection. I felt a sharp stab of envy.

"Elphaba." I started and turned my attention to my teacher and benefactor. "Listen carefully, because this is very important. What you are missing is emotion. Emotion is what drives your brand of magic. Without it you are nothing. You must _feel_ _more_, Fabala!"

"But how can I feel more than I do? I _want_ this, Yackle; no one can feel that more than I do now!" My frustration now aimed itself at her rather than at my own inadequacy. She had no idea what I had _felt_ in my life, and I bristled at being told that I did not feel _enough_.

"Perhaps wanting is not enough!" she countered. "You are skimping on me, Faba. You are holding back. I have no time for people who simply want what they want but will not do what it takes to seize it! You will try again. Either you take what you want or we take steps backward. Perhaps I overestimated your power."

Angry and embarrassed, I turned a steely glare on the pot she'd just mended. I could feel a familiar electric energy pulsing through me, hot like the flush on my face.

"Yes…" I barely registered Yackle's whisper.

With a flick of my fingers the fifty-pound pot shot across the room like a bullet. It shattered on the far wall, sending dust and fragments flying. A jagged chunk of porcelain struck my cheekbone, sending a warm trickle of blood along my jaw.

I stared at the pile of shattered porcelain. Slowly, a satisfied grin worked its way onto my lips. "I did it," I marveled.

"Your anger serves you well." Approval, as well as something else I didn't recognize, colored the words of my mentor. Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "I want you to remember all of the pain you have felt in your life." She spoke quickly. "All of the unjust treatment, everything bad that has ever happened to you. Close your eyes." When I hesitated, she snapped, "Quickly!"

I obeyed. I thought back to the years spent in my father's house. Finding painful memories wasn't difficult. Every moment in that house was pain. I thought of my father, saw his cruel, furious face. All of my deep-rooted hurt and resentment boiled to the surface, until the anger radiating from me was palpable.

"What are you thinking of, Fabala?"

"My father," I answered through gritted teeth.

"And?"

My eyes snapped open. "I hate him," I declared with all the forced I could muster. I'd never said those words aloud before.

It felt good.

"Hate," Yackled mused in a whisper. "Hate is a powerful thing. Hate we can use. Elphaba, I want you to continue to think of your father…and crush that bed to smithereens."

My eyes widened. "But—"

"Just do it."

_Alright..._Concentrating with all of my might on the hatred that I felt, I stretched out a hand and let fury flow from my fingers. Nothing happened.

"Remember..."

I closed my eyes and thought of the night I'd first used magic-the night it had failed to save me. Suddenly the bed exploded, in much the same way that the pot had-except that this time, a kind of invisible shield blocked me from the barrage of wood splinters-Yackle's doing.

Before I even had time to think, Yackle was calling out another order. "The vase on the mantle!"

I pointed and the sound of shattering glass filled the room.

"The kitchen table!"

It hit the wall a split second later.

"Me."

That one froze me in my tracks. Panting, I whirled on her. "_What_?"

"You heard me, Fabala. Send me to join that table."

I was speechless.

Her face hardened. "Do as I say, Elphaba. You can't hurt me, but you must practice on something other than inanimate objects."

"I…I can't."

She held my gaze for a moment, daring me to try. I looked away, and she sighed. Her voice lost its eager, breathless quality, and she sounded like a tired old woman once more."It's quite alright, dear," she said. "Enough for one day."

* * *

I couldn't sleep that night; my thoughts were running laps in my head, chasing question after baffling question. Why did Yackle want me to attack her? Why was anger the only way to fuel magic? And why were my feelings for my father so unsettling to me? They didn't seem to bother Yackle. Besides, if ever a man deserved to be loathed, he did. Somehow everything seemed more sinister in this little cottage. And Yackle seemed different than the last time I'd seen her—harsher, mostly, more brusque and impersonal. She'd been much more grandmotherly before...at least, I thought she had. Maybe it was all in my head.

I grew more and more uneasy. I tossed and turned uncontrollably. Sweat soaked my pillow. Something felt _wrong _here_. _All at once, inexplicable panic gripped me. I had to get out.

I groped blindly for my glasses, and stumbled out of bed. As I opened the front door, I heard a creak in the floorboards behind me. Doing all I could to keep from trembling, I turned to face Yackle.

"What are you doing, dear?"

"I-I just—" I cleared my throat to stop my voice from shaking. "I'm sweaty and need a bit of fresh air."

"Hurry back, yes? We mustn't have you carried off by one of the locals, must we?"

Out on the porch, I gripped the railing until my knuckles turned a green-tinged white. "What's the matter with you, Elphaba? Yackle has been nothing but kind to you. You have no reason to fear her."

Willing myself to be rational, I turned and forced one foot in front of the other, ignoring the dread that settled in my stomach as I reentered the cottage and closed the door behind me. I had no _reason_ to fear her.

But I did.

* * *

**C'mon, y'all know the button loves you...**


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: No, no, no, and no. Are we convinced that I don't own it yet?**

**This one was written in a hurry, and I think it shows. Sorry about that! I'm starting the heaviest school load of my life on Monday (whoopee!), so I wanted to get it done and up while I still have time. If I'm not too busy over the next couple of days, I'll polish it up a bit and repost. **

* * *

When I returned to school on Monday, I was surprised how at ease I felt. Perhaps it was only my relief at being away from Yackle. I found a bench in a quiet corner of the courtyard during lunch and, for once, enjoyed being alone.

"Hey, Elphaba."

Just my luck-it was Fiyero. I returned my attention to my book. "What, you've decided you want to be friends?"

"Nah, not really." He plunked down next to me, letting his backpack fall haphazardly to the ground. He whisked my book from my hands and glanced at the cover. "Please tell me you're not reading this for fun."

I snatched it back with a scowl. "What in Oz do you want?"

"Settle down, Thropp." He took his time, smirking and clearly enjoying himself as he stretched out his legs and got comfortable. Finally, "Any chance you've talked to Galinda lately?"

"I make a point not to," I said through pursed lips, reading and rereading the same sentence as my irritation built.

"Well, would you give her a message when you do?"

I snapped the book shut. "First of all, Your Highness, I'd rather jab needles in my eyes than converse with that disgrace to the human species. Second of all, why can't you give it to her yourself?"

He held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Down, girl. Of course I _can _give it to her myself, but I wish you two would learn to get along; I get sick of hearing her gripe about you."

"Well. You'll have to forgive me if I don't fall all over myself trying to land in her good graces. I'm afraid that the only change that would make Galinda Upland like me can't be done."

He sat up straight and leaned closer to me. "And what change would that be?"

"Please tell me you're not that ignorant."

"Look, Elphaba. You're both girls. Can't you find some sort of girly…stuff to bond over?"

I snorted. "You're joking. I hardly belong to the same species as the silly blondes who make up your fan club."

"You can say that again," he mumbled. My nostrils flared.

"If you're referring to my skin tone, I assure you that my eyes work quite as well as yours do," I snapped.

Fiyero leapt to his feet. "Great Oz, woman! Do you honestly misunderstand everything I say, or are you doing it on purpose?"

"Are you naturally annoying, or are you doing it on purpose?"

He shook his head in awe. "Elphaba Thropp, you are a piece of work."

"And you've been here an awfully long time for someone who doesn't want to be friends. Don't you have class soon?"

"Don't _you?_"

"Yes, actually, and I'm leaving for it right now."

I marched off in the direction of my history class. It took me a moment to realize that Fiyero was trudging along right behind me.

"_Why_ are you following me?" I walked faster, and he jogged to keep up.

"Because I can never remember how to get to this class. Also, because I enjoy being yelled at for no reason at all."

Crap. He had the same history class as me. I groaned.

"Besides," he went on. "Annoying you is quickly becoming a hobby of mine; it beats studying any day."

"And what would you know about studying?"

"Oy! Fiyero!" A boy I didn't know waved from across the hall. He caught sight of me and did a double take. "Whatchyou doin' with the vegetable, man? Tough luck with that blonde of yours?"

Nothing new there. But it was Fiyero's response that caught my attention: "Dude, quit with the vegetable thing already. Her name is Elphaba."

I froze in my tracks, stunned. Fiyero kept walking. "Come on, Elphaba."

We walked in silence for a moment. Finally, I asked, "Why did you do that?"

He shrugged.

"Well, I um…thank you."

His steps slowed. He met my eyes briefly, and for once his seemed sincere. "I'm not _always_ a jerk, Elphaba." Eyes back on his feet, he scuffed one shoe on the floor. "Just most of the time."

I vowed then and there to try to be civil to Fiyero.

* * *

The next two days were relatively peaceful. I'd kept my vow so far, and Fiyero and I were getting along surprisingly well. We didn't talk that much, but we didn't fight either—not until history class on Thursday.

"What? Again?" Fiyero crumpled his freshly graded test into a ball and began rubbing his temples. "Why me?"

I felt a pang of sympathy. "Umm, Fiyero?" I offered as kindly as I could. "I'm sure if you…you know, studied, then you could—"

I jumped as he slapped his palms down on his desk. "Oh, so that's the answer? Really, Elphaba? _Really?_" He turned a blistering glare on me.

I couldn't understand why he was angry. "Excuse me for trying to help."

"Whatever." He fumed in silence for a moment, then, "Maybe if I _studied_," he muttered sarcastically.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "You know what?" Screw my vow of civility. "I know it's hard for you to believe, but some of us actually do try. For once in your life, would it kill you?"

He stared at me, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "I don't even—Thropp, you—For once in my life?" he exploded. Several students around us jumped, and Dr. Dillamond looked flustered. "Master Tiggular," he began, but Fiyero ignored him.

"What do you know about my life?"

"Fiyero—"

"You know what? Forget it." He gathered his things to leave, then turned back and met my eyes. "I don't take advice from vegetables." My mouth

popped open, and he stormed from the classroom, leaving Dr. Dillamond and I looking equally bewildered.

_What?_

* * *

It was strange how betrayed I felt after that. For the next week, neither of us spoke a word to the other. I knew that his defending me didn't make us friends, but for him to turn around and repeat the exact same insult he'd defended me from? It didn't make sense, and I brooded on it far more than I should have.

It was starting to get chilly outside—fall was coming early. I loved the fall. I took frequent walks, venturing farther and farther into the woods. One day, I took a different route and came across a small stream, only a quarter mile or so into the forest. It was only a few inches deep, but many large rocks protruded from the trickling water, and on each side was a high, steep bank. A fallen tree stretched across the it, at least 8 feet above the surface. And there, standing quietly on the makeshift bridge, was Fiyero.

Fresh hurt welled up in me at the sight of him. _It would serve him right if he fell_. Just as the thought formed in my head, a buzz of electricity nipped at my fingers, and a sudden gust of wind stirred the leaves at my feet. A shout pierced the silence, followed by a splash and a dull thud. Then nothing.

_No. _

Heart pounding in my ears, I made a mad dash for the stream. Fiyero lay sprawled across several small boulders, almost three yards down from where he'd stood. The rock near his head was stained red. He wasn't moving.

* * *

**There IS an explanation for Fiyero's little explosion, trust me. :) You'll find out soon enough. **

**Bit of a cliffy there, I guess. ;) Review?**


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: It ain't mine, people.

**So sorry, guys, I know this took ages! I can honestly say-for once-that I've been dying to write and truly haven't had the time. This one is a little shorter than normal, but it seemed like a good place to stop. Thanks for not completely abandoning me (yet:)! Of course, you're completely justified if you do. **

**Anyway, here she is, my lovelies. :)**

* * *

"He's blind."

The silence that followed the nurse's statement was long and profound. I could hear every tick of the clock on the wall behind my head. Finally I whispered—a whisper was all I could manage— "But it's only temporary, right? I mean, you can fix it."

"After that kind of blow to the head?" My guilty stomach squirmed. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. He's only lucky he didn't lose his memory as well."

"Did he…remember what happened?" I asked cautiously.

"Well…" She scrunched up her face in confusion. "It's all very strange. He says he was pushed, but that there was no one nearby when it happened. It's almost like…"

"Almost like what?" I said quickly. My mouth was paper-dry.

"Well," she hedged, "I certainly _hope_ there are no witches on campus, but who can say for sure? I won't be surprised if there's some sort of investigation after this. And you know, I've heard stories…" She glanced discreetly from side to side and beckoned me closer. "I've heard stories of a witch in the village, a really nasty old woman. No one can prove it, of course, but I say she's out there, lurking. Word has it she's taken an apprentice, though nobody can seem to say who."

"Is that so?" I said faintly.

"Yes, and what's more—"

"Hilda!"

The nurse jumped a little. "Oh, that's me they're asking for. I'd better run." She gently peeled my fingers from their death grip on her arm—though I couldn't remember putting them there—and patted my hand before disappearing back inside. Dazed, I stumbled backwards until the backs of my knees hit wood and buckled, and I collapsed onto a small bench.

It had been three days since the accident. Perhaps because I wanted so badly to forget, I could only vaguely remember rushing down the steep bank into the water and watching it run red. I had almost no memory of getting Fiyero to the school hospital, though I knew it had involved a levitation spell. The last few days had all run together in a blur of worry and pacing and mind-numbing guilt. Had it been someone else's fault, I wouldn't have lost a moment's sleep. But the fault wasn't someone else's—it was mine.

There had been a bit of an uproar when the school had found out that its most popular student was unconscious in the hospital wing. The first day, people came in droves—gaggles of crying girls and groups of secretly overjoyed boys. By the second day, nearly everyone seemed to be over it.

A conversation I'd overheard that morning explained why:

"Well, _I _don't want him with that ugly gash on his head," one girl whispered to the circle of friends that huddled around her. "It'll scar for sure."

"And I heard that he's _blind!_" said another.

"Imagine trying to sleep with a man who can't see what he's doing…"

"Ew!" the girls squealed in unison. Shuddering, they began drift in the other direction, but not before I heard one say dismissively, "No matter. I always thought his friend Avaric was better-looking anyway." The rest dissolved into giggles, and Fiyero was forgotten.

It seemed that, like it or not, Fiyero was going to get what he'd told me he wanted—he wouldn't have many friends left once all this was over.

One person, however, out of the entire student body had surprised me with her loyalty—Galinda. Twice I'd run into her in the hospital; the first time I hid before she saw me and the second I lied and said I worked there. She visited dutifully, lacy embroidered handkerchief in hand, and when she came home every night she was quiet and subdued; I had to concede that perhaps the ice queen had a heart after all.

Perhaps—but only a small one.

At any rate, I had bigger problems than Galinda Upland. It was Friday. That night I would have to face Yackle. I would have to explain to her that I no longer wanted anything to do with magic.

….If I decided to go.

* * *

A strange sort of mental itch nagged at me all that day. I lay wide awake in my own bed at midnight, growing more distressed by the second and ready to give my right arm to know what was the matter with me. I knew full well that I was breaking my promise to Yackle by not showing up, and that doing so was bound to make me antsy, but this was something different. My skin crawled, my legs twitched, and it was all I could do to keep from leaping out of bed and bolting outside in my nightgown. Yackle lived south of the university—in the same direction as my only window, which was beginning to take on a frosty kind of glow. An invisible force dragged me out of my bed towards the glass, like a magnet, and as I pressed my hands against it, something happened. One moment I was gazing out onto the dying lawn, resisting the urge to jump straight out the window and go to my mentor, and the next I felt my resolve begin to slip. A thick haze clouded my thoughts…and then, in the blink of an eye, I found myself standing dazed on Yackle's doorstep. And then my arm shot out of its own accord to grasp the doorknob. And then my legs were carrying me inside.

She was waiting. And she he did _not_ look pleased.


End file.
